


the art of disappearing

by seoafin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Disability, Dyslexia, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mutant Powers, Mutants, Politics, Protective Steve Rogers, Social Anxiety, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Skips, Tony Being Tony, maybe smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seoafin/pseuds/seoafin
Summary: you look at him and he feels like that scrawny kid from brooklyn again--sickly, frail, fists raised, with a penchant of getting into fights he couldn't win.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, originally this was supposed to be a rlly long one shot?? and then it exceeded 20 word pages and then i had a bunch of plot ideas and bam this baby was born which is basically an accumulation of all that i had in mind for the one shot and more.

The first time Steve Rogers saw you, you were sleeping.

Papers were scattered around your desk in a frenzy; empty cups of coffee were placed all over -- on the floor, on your desk, stacked; pencils and wrinkled candy wrappers and balled up pieces of papers, half of which didn’t even make it into the trashcan and more

It looked like a tornado had swept through your office, decimating everything in sight and leaving nothing but a mess behind.

That’s when he caught a glimpse of your passed out figure in the middle of the disorder, slumped over the desk and sleeping soundly, head resting on your arms. Surrounding you were several extremely high stacks of files in the precarious position of falling over if you moved even an inch.

Steve could hardly believe his eyes at the mess on your desk and could only stare as Agent Hill cleared her throat from next to him. At least she seemed unfazed at the mess, like the disarray was nothing more but a daily occurrence.

Immediately startled into life, you shot up, eyes wide and frantic as they roamed around the room in an attempt to identify the source of the noise. When they landed on Hill, a mixture of resignation and exhaustion crossed your face.

She crossed her arms, and he expected her tone to be reprimanding in that Maria Hill fashion that demanded respect, but instead it was a gentle acknowledgment.

“Agent.”

“Not anymore.” You muttered with a tired sigh, gaze flickering towards him. There were dark circles under your eyes as you regarded him with disinterest. There was no spark of familiarity or surprise, just exhaustion that pulsed off you in spades. You turned back to Hill, hand nervously rubbing at the crook of your elbow.

There was a flash of white that caught his eyes, and he was drawn to the white bandages wrapped around your hand haphazardly. It looked hastily wrapped. He could see the dark, purplish bruise on your hand peeking out from underneath the bandages.

“Again?”

Hill sounded amused, eyebrows quirked up inquiringly.

You were grabbing at pieces of paper on your desk in an order that would have confused the common man, yet somehow you seemed to know exactly where everything was on your safety hazard of a mess pile. “Stupid coffee pot was hot” was your flat response, and Steve frowned.

Your injury didn’t exactly look like a burn.

You swiped pieces of paper from your desk, forming another pile of paper. Hill glanced at her watch.

“Do you have the files?”

“Dealings, transactions, all that shady stuff perfect for blackmail.”  You replied dryly, pushing them into her awaiting hands. "But of course you wouldn't know anything about that, huh?"

At this point, he stood quietly, watching you fidget. Your fingers drummed on the your tabletop, shifting your feet into a different position every second. He saw how your eyes would dart towards the entrance as if you couldn’t wait to leave.

Steve was vaguely reminded of a tightly sprung coil waiting to explode. Or maybe a wary cat. He couldn’t help but expect someone to burst through the doors at the tense set of your shoulders and your rigid stance.

He would have thought it was him making you nervous, but he might as well have been invisible by the way you hadn’t acknowledged him or given him a second glance. It was as if he wasn’t even there.

Hill looked through the pile, eyes never straying from the papers as she looked through each one, checking and double checking, because of course, Hill was nothing if not meticulous. “I don’t think the two of you have met yet.”

Your eyes widened and he saw you stiffen, back as straight as an iron rod.

“Oh,” you breathed out, blinking rapidly.

The way you looked at him made him think this was the first time you had  _seen_ him since he entered. It’s wasn’t what he was quite used to. He was 6’2 with a presence that, for some reason, seemed to make people flock to him every time he entered a room, full of misguided preconceptions on who the man was behind the shield.

A long time ago, when he had been half his size and a sickly, frail kid with a penchant for getting into fights he couldn’t win, people had overlooked him all the time.

And over time, he had grown used to it.

As Captain America, he felt awkward in his own skin. Gawky and too... _big_. Here he was, a national icon, a hero, someone people looked up to---

But you didn’t even seem to even notice him.

So he took the first initiative to stick his hand out. “Steve Rogers, ma’m.”

“Ma’m” you huffed out in disbelief, eyeing his outstretched hand. If you already knew him as Captain America, it didn’t show on your face. You repeated your name took his hand in yours, hand nearly engulfing yours. It was a gentle, yet firm grip, and you wondered if it had anything to do with the bandage that covered your hand.

You met his eyes evenly. As tired and worn down as you looked, your gaze was piercing, focused, with a quiet type of intensity that floored him. He could almost see the gears turning in your head constantly whirling, taking in every detail about him.

You looked at him as if you were seeing the scrawny, fists raised, fighting prone kid he used to be, but there was nothing patronizing in your eyes. Just a certain thoughtfulness and a curiosity that made his mouth dry, and pinned him straight to the floor.

Your gaze wavered. Just for a second, but it was enough for him to see the skittishness behind them.

Clearing your throat, you licked your lips. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Steve nodded. “Same here, ma’m.”

You shook your head. “My name’s fine, Captain.”

So you  _did_ know who he was.

He took that into account with a slow nod. “In that case, call me Steve.”

Surprise flitted across your face before you offered a small, genuine smile. You looked more relaxed, less anxious. “Will do.”

There was lapse of an oddly comfortable silence as the sound of rustling paper filled the room.

“Looks good.” Maria finally said, a satisfied smile on her lips.

You looked excited, eyes light at the prospect of finally being able to leave. You were bouncing on the balls of your heels by the time Hill answered. “Can I go now?”

Whatever was on the papers must have satisfied her enough because she nodded. “You can go.”

Your shoulders slouched in relief and you took a deep breath. Grabbing a duffle bag from under the table, you slung it over your shoulder. He couldn’t help but follow you with his eyes as you rushed out the room, and you were halfway out the door when you paused, as if remembering proper decorum demanded a goodbye.

“Um, see you around Maria.” Hesitation. You ducked your head as if embarrassed, averting his face in the process. “...Steve.”

Something warm unfurled in his gut as soon as his name left your lips.

And then you were gone.

They watched your figure bob through the heads of all the other Stark associates until you disappeared down the hall. Hill sighed, but he could detect faint traces of affection in the way she shook her head.

She turned to him, all traces of amusement wiped off her face. “We should get to the debriefing now. Stark’s going to throw a hissy fit if we aren’t there soon.” She said deadpan. It was accompanied by a massage to her temple. There was a grimace on her face that spoke volumes about Tony's migraine inducing antics

Chuckling, he shook his head and tried to get rid of the unnerving way you had looked at him. Your eyes watching him,  _seeing_ him.

“We can’t have that now, can we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu @ seoafin.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of glass shattering caught Steve’s attention and he paused mid-step at the hushed curse, glancing towards the kitchen compound. He could hear someone inside shuffling around, the sound of crunched glass.

Another curse.

The door was wide open, letting light out and signaling someone's presence.

FRIDAY’s curious lilt filled the room. “Do you require assistance?”

"Uhh...nope, nope!" came your muffled voice, "I'm good!"

He felt restless, fists clenching and unclenching in an attempt to tamp down the urge to slam his fists into the nearest wall. The nightmares came more often than not nowadays. Sometimes, it was watching Bucky fall off the train, while he watched helplessly, mouth wide open in a silent scream. Other times, it was the corpses, thrown like rag dolls as far as the eye could see while he stood, unable to do anything but watch as more lifeless bodies joined the pile.

They never failed to make him wake up in a cold sweat, reaching out for a hand he had narrowly missed by second.

Sleep was the last thing on his mind anyway. He had slept for seventy years, and that was more than enough. 

Without thinking, he walked into the kitchen, drawn by the sound of your voice.

You were on your knees, surrounded by small shards of glinting glass that caught on the light. He could see large chunks of glass in the palm of your hand while steam unfurled from the cup placed on the corner of the table.

You were blissfully unaware of his company until he cleared his throat. “Here, let me help.”

He was just about the kneel down when you jumped. “Wha--no, no!” You waved your arms at him and he froze. “It’s fine, um, no worries.” Your voice sounded high pitched, nervous, for a reason that escaped him. He could've sworn he heard a huffed out, "such a gentleman" remark muttered under your breath.

“If you...if you say so.” Steve reluctantly stood back up, careful not to startle you and worried at the possibility that you'd injure yourself further. There was a carelessness in the way you picked up the glass that had thin slices of blood growing a deeper, darker red on your palm.

From the corner of his eye, he could see a fresh bandage wrapped around your ankle.

The nightmare he had woken up to was still fresh behind his eyelids; the terrified faces of those he couldn’t save seared into his head with a viciousness that had him replaying the scene over and over again. He was surrounded by the acrid scent of smoke as gravel and rubble rumbled from beneath him. The screams and cries of people desperate for help pierced the air as firetrucks and sirens roared in the distance.

He remembered you, vaguely, from that day when he had briefly met you with Hill right before the mission briefing. You had been the one to supply the information on the nuclear arms various small countries in Eastern Europe had been amassing at an unprecedented level. You would shoot him a tight smile and a curt nod in greeting, but other than that, it was blaringly obvious to anybody who spent more than two minutes breathing the same air as you that you were uncomfortable in any situation that demanded you speak in front of more than three people.

Everyone seemed used to it though.

You were somewhat of an enigma, as he found out from Hill later.

There wasn’t a particularly astounding resume on your end that would've made you stand out from the thousands of interns or job seekers that applied for SHIELD daily. You were a college dropout (the cited reason on your transcript was failing grades and an ‘attitude’) with no known family, yet reputed as one of SHIELD’s more important assets.

Your hacking skills were unmatched, and you had slowly fostered a rap on the darknet for exposing sex trafficking rings and pedophiles from right under the noses of the Feds and CIA who had gotten a chastising from the government for letting an unknown entity wreck havoc.

You had been on SHIELD’s radar for some time too, a game of cat and mouse as they tried to track you down to no avail. You were too smart, too untrackable, with a track record of doing jobs that stumped even the best.

It was only after one inebriated (on your end) slip up that had Nick Fury himself knocking on the door of your run down apartment in Hell’s kitchen.

A week later, they arrested you under phony charges.

Two weeks later you were working for SHIELD as an ‘intelligence officer’.

After the fall of SHIELD, Tony had hired you stating how you were a potential dangerous threat, but even Steve could see the warmth in Tony’s eyes when he would ruffle your hair and jokingly call you ‘kiddo’.

But other than, you were a mystery. Other than being especially close to Tony and Bruce, you never came to any of the parties Tony had invited you to citing various excuses, and never seemed to stay long when you did.

Steve was going to comment on your bleeding hand, but instead wordlessly walked over the cabinet where he knew Pepper stored the bandages and took out three. He made his way back to the counter and filled up a glass of water, feeling his throat burn as he swallowed.

When you finished depositing the shards in a nearby trash can, you stood up.

“Sorry” you said, averting his gaze and taking a step back. It took him a moment to piece together the thought that his presence may have been overwhelming to you who always seemed shrink whenever he entered a room.

He still wasn't used to that.

You studied the worn outlines of his face. “Am I bothering you?”

He wasn’t staring at anything in particular when you pulled him out of his daze. He shook his head.

“No." He pushed the bandages forward, eyeing the blood. “You’re bleeding.”

You looked down at your palms, eyes wide. “Oh.”

Steve didn’t know why he was still here. A small part of him whispered that he needed company, someone to teeter him to reality where the voices and the faces didn’t pull him under, so he stayed. He didn’t ask what you were doing in the kitchen in three in the morning, nor did he try to make small talk.

You seemed to understand his need for silence, so you hesitantly sat down across from him, ripping open the bandages and applying them onto your cuts.

One bandage glued on, you pushed the steaming cup towards him and gestured for him to take it.

He blinked. “I can’t--”

“Take it,” you urged with a small smile, the dark bags under your eyes were more prominent under the harsh LED lights. “Chamomile. Helps with the..." you trailed off unsure, eyeing him with slight caution, "nightmares.”

He supposed he must have looked worse for wear.

Then the corners of lips twitched upwards. “Consider it a trade.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, you had pulled a coin out of thin air, sliding the circular object around your fingers in a soothing motion, round and round and round.

Steve reached out to accept the cup with a grateful nod. Warmth spread over his hands. The cup was still piping hot when he took a sip while you watched, head tilted, as if to as ask how he felt about it.

He felt exposed under your gaze, like you had stripped him bare and could see his innermost thoughts. There were no forced movements or false pretenses.

He was not Captain America.

He was Steve Rogers.

It was on the verge of unnerving.

Silence filled the room and he felt the tension release from his shoulders. You were looking at the wall, an empty, faraway look in your eyes, absentmindedly rubbing the coin in your hand, and he considered it a personal victory that you hadn't run away yet.

It was an...odd feeling, being this comfortable around a person he barely knew. Sure, there was Sam, who was as rambunctious as kind, never without a cheeky grin on his face. Bucky, who had gone through years and years of torture and had come back from the ice a changed man--

Bucky who he had...abandoned.

He took another sip, ignoring the way his fists tightened.

The chamomile was warm on his tongue.

“Thank you,” he croaked out. He swiped as his face blearily, focused on the way you shifted in your seat, drumming your fingers on the flat surface. The shadows were receding, the images of the faces and the hands clawing their way out of the dirt subsided until all he could see was you, smiling at him.

This time, the smile reached your eyes. You tucked a strand of hair behind the back of your ear.

“No problem.”

He met your smile with his own and found that it came easier, less forced. For the first time since he had woken up, it felt like he could breathe easy.

The coin was suspended between your fingers, unmoving, and he realized you weren’t fidgeting anymore.


End file.
